Kismet
by Girl in a White Dress
Summary: kismet: fate or destiny. Some things are just meant to be . . . COMPLETE!
1. chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Thomas Harris. Last time I checked, I wasn't him. Original material is mine, though J 

A/N: This is set about three years after the movie, but I'm not sticking specifically to either movie or book canon. Just so you know . . . 

Kismet

By Melanie-Anne

one

Bolts of lightning split the sky, accompanied by a cacophony of thunder. Seconds later, rain and hail began pelting from the sky. Clarice Starling lifted her foot from the accelerator, and pressed down gently on the brake. The car slowed immediately. She turned to her companion and smiled ruefully.

"You wanna call Dwayne to tell him you're gonna be a little late?"

Ardelia Mapp shook her head. "Not just yet."

She had met Dwayne Ritter a year ago when she'd consulted him about a case. It wasn't love at first sight – it wasn't even _like_ at first sight – but when he'd run into her at Starbucks and seen her sitting in a corner, hiding her tears behind a newspaper, he couldn't ignore her. She'd been working on busting a child prostitution ring and on that particular morning she had come from telling a family that their six-year-old little boy had been found. She had seen the kid's body . . . He wouldn't be playing with his new puppy ever again. Dwayne was a pastor at a small Baptist church and it was in him that Ardelia confided. Six months later the case had been successfully closed. Ardelia had told the little boy's family in person.

Dwayne had proposed a month ago and Ardelia would be meeting his parents for the first time at dinner that night. Clarice was genuinely happy for her friend. Her own loneliness didn't bother her.

"You sure? He's gonna worry."

"Relax. He knows I'm with you. I called this morning and said you'd drop me. Stupid damn car, I don't know why it would pick today of all days to die on me . . ."

"Suit yourself." Clarice turned up the volume and continued humming along to the tune on the radio.

It was purely by chance that the two women happened to be on that particular stretch of road at that particular moment in time. No one could have predicted that the truck traveling in the opposite direction would jackknife on the wet road and come careening towards them. Clarice slammed her foot down on the break and the car skidded, still traveling forwards. Ardelia braced her hands against the dashboard and looked at Clarice, her face a mask of terror. The body of the truck barreled closer and closer. The steering wheel was locked; Clarice couldn't swerve out of the way. She shut her eyes in the moment of impact . . . 

. . . And then she knew no more.

* * *

Everything hurt. Clarice tried to open her eyes, but it was too much of an effort. She whimpered softly and the nurse gently jabbed a syringe into her shoulder. Moments later, the pain subsided and Clarice drifted back to sleep. The drug mercifully kept her from dreaming.

The next time she drifted into consciousness, she could hear a deep voice murmuring in the background. Someone was praying. She opened her eyes and tried to turn her head. The movement sent a jolt of pain straight down her spine. She moaned, and the speaking stopped.

"Clarice? You awake?"

She tried to say, "Dwayne?" but couldn't manage more than a garbled moan.

"Clare, relax. There's a tube in your throat; don't try to speak."

She blinked slowly as her brain struggled to process what had happened. _Where's Ardelia?_

"I'm just going to fetch a nurse."

While he was gone, Clarice took stock of what hurt. Her neck and back, her legs, her right hand . . . but if she could feel the pain, the damage couldn't be too bad, right? She would have reason to be concerned if there was no feeling at all.

__

But where's Ardelia? Why was Dwayne with me and not her?

You're a smart girl, Clarice. Figure it out. It was Hannibal Lecter's voice. She shut her eyes, willing him away.

"Miss Starling, I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

The nurse was plump and blonde and far too cheerful for Clarice's liking. She narrowed her eyes. _How do you think I feel?_

"I'm going to take this tube out. It won't hurt a bit. Exhale on my count. One. Two. Three."

She had obviously never been intubated before. Clarice's throat felt raw. She glared at the nurse, who left oblivious to any ill feeling in the room.

"Do you know what happened to you?"

"Accident," Clarice rasped. Great, her voice was hoarse too. She hated being injured.

"Yeah." Dwayne sighed and sank back into the hospital chair.

"'Delia?"

He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands. Clarice knew what had happened without him having to say a word. Clarice wept. Silent tears rolled down her face. She couldn't breathe. Another person she loved was gone from her life. Her best friend . . . the person who'd rejoiced with her when she'd rescued Catherine Martin, the person she'd ranted to when Krendler had propositioned her, the one person who'd been truly supportive during the whole Drumgo fiasco and its aftermath . . . her one true friend.

Ardelia had screamed when the truck had hit them. It was a sound Clarice had heard before, and a sound she knew would always stay with her: the sound of a screaming lamb.

"It was a terrible accident," Dwayne said. "I guess it was her time. God called her home."

"Don't talk to me about God!" Clarice didn't care about the strain on her already tender throat. She was too far-gone in her grief to care about anything. "Ardelia was the most decent person I knew. It shouldn't have happened. I don't have time for a God who would just snatch her away without giving a damn about those left behind. How can you still believe-?"

"Clarice-"

"She was so excited to be getting married. In all the time I knew her, she'd never been so happy. And you're one of His servants . . . why would He do this to you?"

"I don't know! I don't know why this happened. I wish it hadn't. I wish she was still here . . . But she's not, Clarice. And I have to make sense of that in any way I can." Dwayne wiped his eyes but it was too late; Clarice had seen his tears. She didn't say anything as he left the room.

__

to be continued


	2. chapter 2

Disclaimer in part one. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Apologies for the delay in posting, but my dial-up connection wasn't working :o(

__

two

"Miss Starling, you're very lucky to be alive."

Clarice didn't feel very lucky. She stared up at the ceiling, hardly hearing the doctor's words.

"You fractured both of your legs, broke two of your ribs and bruised the rest. Your right wrist is also broken. You pinched a nerve in your spine – although there's some bruising, the damage isn't permanent. Your whiplash is quite mild, all things considered. All in all, you're lucky-"

__

To be alive, she finished in her mind. _I got that. Tell me something new._

The doctor consulted Clarice's chart, nodding to himself. "Are you in any pain?"

__

Nothing you can help me with.

A long time later, she was finally able to get to sleep. This time, she dreamed . . . 

'Clarice, what have you done now?'

'Nothing, Dr. Lecter. I-'

'Can you hear them screaming? Look.'

He turned and pointed . . . and suddenly they were on the road again. Clarice's Mustang lay on its roof; she wondered how it was possible that she'd survived. She heard screaming coming from inside the car and rushed closer. Ardelia stared at her, her eyes accusing.

'Help me, Clarice. Get me out of here.'

Clarice tried to pry open the door but it wouldn't budge. She reached inside to pull Ardelia our but she couldn't get her out of the seatbelt.

'I'm so sorry.'

The driver of the truck stood behind her. In slow motion, she turned around and pulled out her Colt .45, emptying it into the man's chest. He fell to the ground.

'That's my girl.'

She turned to face Lecter, staring in horror at the bloody stump of his left arm.

'Now look what you've gone and done.'

Clarice dropped her gun ad stepped towards Lecter. 'I'm sorry. I never meant-'

'Do me a favor. Tell me when the lambs stop screaming.' With that, he vanished. Clarice was left on an empty stretch of road with only Ardelia's scream to keep her company.

She woke up crying, and had never felt more alone in her entire life.

***

Dwayne visited every day. He didn't mention God to Clarice; neither did he talk about Ardelia. He read the newspapers out loud, commenting every now and then on a story that interested him. He spoke about baseball, the weather – anything and everything. Clarice knew what he was doing but let him continue anyway. If he thought he was helping her, she wasn't going to let him think otherwise.

Ardelia's funeral took place a week after the accident that had claimed her life. Clarice was still in hospital; it killed her to know that she couldn't attend. Instead, she watched it on the news. The press had been having a field day with the accident. They had dredged up Clarice's past and, once again, the papers were full of her association with Lecter and its results. A reporter from the Tattler, following the example of the late Freddie Lounds, had snuck into Clarice's hospital room. He hadn't counted on the presence of Dwayne, who picked him and threw him out into the hallway. That had been the day before Clarice had woken up.

Ardelia was buried at Arlington. Clarice promised herself that she would visit as soon as she got out of hospital. She couldn't help remember the last time she'd buried a friend . . . maybe she'd visit Johnny Brigham's grave too.

A few days later, Clarice could finally sit up. It would be another five weeks before she would be able to leave the bed. What irritated her most was the cast on her wrist prevented her from writing her letter of resignation.

"She wouldn't want you to leave," Dwayne said when she told him. "Not like this, not because of her."

Clarice stared at the ugly pattern on the curtain. "We always said we'd retire together. Who's going to keep me sane now?" She smiled ruefully. "With my luck, Hannibal Lecter will reappear and cause more trouble . . . who'll stick by me then?"

Dwayne pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He emptied it over Clarice's lap.

"This belonged to her. They let me take it but I think she'd prefer for you to have it."

When he left, Clarice picked up the delicate gold chain and stared at the cross that dangled from it. She sat like that for a long time, then slowly opened the drawer and put it inside.

***

Her wrist itched. She stuck a pen inside the cast to scratch, but it didn't help much. A psychologist had stopped by to talk to her about bottling up her grief. She disliked him instantly for trying to get inside her head . . . and maybe because he looked a little like Jack Crawford. Jack, who had let her down in the end.

Besides, she already had somebody in her head, analyzing every thought and word.

The psychologist, Dr. Williamson, commented on her anger. She'd glared at him, then asked him, very nicely, to leave.

Dwayne brought some magazines for her to read. If he noticed the absence of the cross around her neck, he didn't say anything. Clarice paged disinterestedly through the magazines, stopping on an ad for Gucci. She smiled fondly, thinking of a gift that sat in its box in her cupboard at home.

She lay awake, fighting sleep for as long as she could. It was a ritual she performed every night -- anything to keep from dreaming. In her dreams, she couldn't do anything to stop the screaming. Ardelia haunted her, Lecter haunted her . . . even Evelda Drumgo haunted her. Sometimes she dreamed that it was Ardelia holding the baby in the Feliciana Fish Market, and only after Clarice fired the gun did she recognize her friend.

Sometime in the third week, she dreamed of her father. He told her how disappointed he was in her and she woke up with a jolt. Lying in the darkness, she wiped away her tears. When her breathing returned to normal, she realized something was different. Very slowly, she turned her head to the side and gasped as figure stepped into the moonlight.

"Well, hello, Clarice."

__

to be continued


	3. chapter 3

Disclaimer in part one. Thanks for the reviews J 

three

__

I'm dreaming, she thought. _He can't possibly be here. It's not him. It's not him. Not him. Nothimnothimnothim._

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. Flying these days isn't as safe as it used to be." He pulled the chair closer to her bed and sat down.

"Dr. Lecter . . ." She could do nothing but stare at him. Her gaze dropped to his left hand. He raised his arm and wiggled his fingers at her.

"I have a friend who's a surgeon. She did a great job of reattaching my thumb. I assure you, it's as good as new."

Clarice remembered the horror she'd felt when she'd seen his thumb on the chopping board. She had known he wouldn't harm her, but had never thought he'd harm himself. Later, when she'd realized that he'd valued freedom more than anything else – even her, which left a strange ache in her chest – she'd blamed it on the morphine he'd given her. How could she be expected to think clearly when she was drugged?

"I'm sorry-" she began.

Lecter gently covered his hand with her own. "Shh. Go back to sleep. We can talk later."

She shook her head; sleep was the last thing she wanted to do. She hardly felt the tiny pinprick of the needle as it pierced her skin, and didn't protest as his hands gently smoothed her hair away from her face.

"Don't eat me, 'kay?" she mumbled as she drifted off. He chuckled softly at that, and her last thought was _hell, I'll blame the drugs again._

***

"What do you mean, you don't know where she is?" Dwayne stood at the foot of Clarice's now-empty bed. His hands were tightly clenched at his side and he raised his head to look at the young nurse, a tiny blonde just out of college.

"We . . . umm . . . well . . ."

"What's your name?"

"Rachel."

"Rachel, please go fetch someone who can tell me what happened." Dwayne's voice was calm, but the tension behind the words was obvious.

She nodded and scurried out. Dwayne sat down, feeling very old and very tired. A sparkle on the floor caught his eye. He bent down and picked up the gold cross. It lay in the palm of his hand as he prayed.

"Mr. Ritter, I tried to call-" The doctor stopped when Dwayne looked up.

"What happened?"

Dr, Barnard bowed his head. "We have everything on the surveillance tape, if you'd like to see it."

Dwayne nodded and followed the doctor. He was surprised to see Clint Pearsall when they arrived at security. He recognized him from the funeral and warily shook Pearsall's hand.

The video was already playing. Dwayne leaned closer to the monitor and watched a man push a gurney down the hallway. The man glanced up long enough for Dwayne to see his face.

"Oh, my God . . ." Ardelia had talked to him about Clarice and Lecter one night. Her greatest fear had been that Lecter would return to kill Clarice. She'd shown Dwayne a picture of him and had told him that he was looking at the face of evil. He hadn't disagreed.

"She's dead, isn't she?" he asked.

Pearsall spoke; placing what he thought was a reassuring hand on Dwayne's shoulder. "We don't know that. After they left the hospital, they just vanished. She could still be alive." 

"They didn't _leave_. He _took_ her!"

"Mr. Ritter, I know you're upset-"

"You don't seriously think that Clarice called him up and asked him to _fetch_ her, do you?"

"She has let him escape once before . . . and she saved his life. I don't know for sure what kind of relationship they had."

"_Relationship_? Do you know what you're saying?" Pearsall was silent. Dwayne shook his head; had Clarice had to put up with this at the Bureau? "What are you doing to find her?"

"Mr. Ritter, I'm going to be honest with you. I think you've suffered enough. I do have agents working on her disappearance-"

"Kidnapping."

"-But I don't think we'll ever see her again."

Dwayne stared at Pearsall's face for a few long seconds. He looked at the monitor, at the frozen image of Lecter's face. Then he turned around and left the room. 

Somehow, he found himself at the hospital's chapel. There was one other person in the room: a gaunt, bald young boy holding a rosary. Dwayne nodded at him and took a seat near the front. He bowed his head and tried to pray, but no words would come. He cried instead and didn't look up when he felt someone sit down next to him. It was the boy. 

He looked at the cross Dwayne held and sighed. "You lost somebody, didn't you?"

Dwayne could only nod.

"Don't be sad. She's in a better place."

__

Ardelia, Dwayne thought, _but not Clarice_. He looked at the boy sadly; how could he expect him to understand?

***

He watched her sleep. Life had been hard on her since he'd last seen her. She'd lost weight. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. He wondered when she'd started biting her nails.

She was still beautiful.

He hated seeing her so weak. How had God dared do this to his Clarice? He ran his fingers along the plaster cast on her arm, imagining the bones knitting together under the skin. At least she was alive; it could have been worse. It could have been her lying in the cold ground instead of Ardelia. It hit him then just how close he had come to losing her. 

Her eyes fluttered beneath their closed lids and she murmured softly. He lay a cool hand on her forehead and she stilled. He smiled, glad he'd returned to her.

She needed him. Perhaps now she would realize that. He bent down and kissed her forehead lightly, then smoothed the bedcovers. Until she woke, he was content to watch her.

TBC


	4. chapter 4

Disclaimer in part one. Again, sorry for the HUGE intervals in posting, but real life can be so unobliging sometimes *sigh* Rehearsals, assignments . . . can't a girl just write some fanfic? Anyway . . . 

four

Mid-morning sunshine streamed through the open window. Vaguely familiar music drifted up to her. Clarice wondered if she was still dreaming. She looked around the room. It was stylishly decorated and she could see herself in the large mirrors on the cupboard doors. She frowned; did she really look that awful?

The door opened and Lecter entered, carrying a breakfast tray. Clarice couldn't help remembering the last time he'd cooked for her, and hoped it was just cereal.

"Good morning, Clarice. Hungry?"

"A little." She struggled to sit and he put down the tray to help her. She flinched when he touched her, then closed her eyes. "My ribs—"

"Of course. I'm sorry." He handed her the tray and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Thank you." _Don't forget your manners, Clarice._

"Tell me what happened."

There was something in his tone that commanded obedience. Clarice looked out the window. "I was driving. It was raining pretty hard. I should have been paying more attention. I should have been able to stop in time but . . . but I didn't. They said that . . . that it was instantaneous. That she wasn't in any pain."

"What would your daddy say, huh, Clarice? Killing your best friend?"

She looked at him sharply, her mouth slightly open. The grief in her eyes was obvious.

"Clarice, it was an _accident_."

"It should have been me."

"Don't _ever_ say that!" The anger in his voice surprised her. She stared after him in shock as he left the room. How dare he? He couldn't possibly have any idea what she was going through. Monsters didn't have feelings.

Still, the words he'd uttered before vanishing from her life echoed in her head. _Would you ever say to me: stop, if you loved me, you'd stop . . . ?_

She pushed the tray away and lay back against the pillows. What right did he have to bring her here? She hadn't asked him to help. She didn't want to be here. She just wanted to be left alone.

She didn't deserve his kindness.

*

Lecter sat at the kitchen table, looking at the teacup in front of him. For a brief moment, he was tempted to push it over the edge of the table with the faint hope that it would reassemble itself. He thought of Clarice, lying upstairs, broken and bruised, and the moment passed. He sighed and rinsed the cup out instead.

In his memory palace is a room that he hates visiting: the kitchen of Krendler's Chesapeake home. At the same time, he cannot help returning there, time and time again. In that room, Clarice is at her most beautiful, her most proud. Lecter does not regret what happened in that kitchen.

His favorite memory of her is of the barn at Mason Verger's farm. He had become one of her lambs them, in need of rescuing. If her bullet hadn't killed the man who shot her, Lecter would have happily finished the job.

He sighed again and returned to reality. He couldn't afford to sit and daydream – as pleasant as it was. There were things to be done.

*

It was raining softly and Dwayne was the only person visiting the cemetery. He stood in front of the mound of earth, his hands in his coat pockets.

"I miss you, Delia. So much." He bowed his head, the words struggling to come. "Clarice is gone. Lecter took her. Snatched her right out the hospital. And those fools at the FBI aren't even trying hard to find her!"

Dwayne wiped his wet cheeks and looked up at the gray sky, seeming to realize only now that it was raining. "This is . . . wrong. You should still be here. It's just not . . . fair. I met this kid at the hospital. Twelve years old and he's dying of leukemia. _Twelve_, Delia. But you know what? He said he's not scared of dying. That he was going to the place where the desert meets the ocean and—" He smiled. "And where birds fly backwards to keep the dust out their eyes."

He looked at the flowers left by people he didn't know, and looked at the countless other gravestones. Tears sprang to his eyes as he fingered the diamond ring in his pocket. "I really, really miss you. And I know if you were here, you'd be trying to find Clarice, so that's what I'm going to do. I promise."

*

"Dr. Lecter, why did you take me from the hospital?" Clarice put down the crossword puzzle as soon as he entered the room. It bothered her that in the week that she'd been here – wherever here was – the question had only just occurred to her.

"Because you needed me," Lecter said, matter-of-factly.

"That's a bit presumptuous of you, isn't it?"

The doctor shrugged. "Presumptuous or not, it's the truth."

She couldn't argue. The black cloud of depression that had consumed her in the hospital had lifted slightly since she'd been with Lecter. Still, she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"What exactly do you plan on doing with me?"

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"I know. I—" She sighed. "I just don't understand why you'd risk capture to come back and take me out of the hospital. Where I was doing just fine, by the way."

"Have the lambs stopped screaming yet, Clarice?" He used the same, measured tone as when he'd spoken to her in Memphis all those years before. Even then, he'd known so much about her, more than he'd had a right to. Why couldn't she lie to him? Was it because the single time she had, she'd been eaten up by guilt? Maybe it was because he'd never lied to her.

She sighed again. "No."

"Do you ever think about our conversation at the dinner table? About what I said to you?"

"Yes." She drew the word out, studying his face. His expression betrayed nothing. Where was he going with this?

"And you've never once thought about how everything turned out?" He paused, deliberately. "You've never once imagined a different ending?"

She remembered a moment in the kitchen. Her heart had stopped beating when she'd felt his lips on hers and then, CLICK. She'd been in shock, hadn't realized she'd cuffed him until he held up their joined wrists. An earlier memory: _"People will say we're in love."_

Suddenly confused, and frightened – why was she frightened? – she brushed her hair behind her ears, looking away. Looking at anything, except him. The room was too hot, her wrist itched and her throat felt very, very dry.

__

People will say we're in love. 

__

I came halfway around the world to watch you run.

Would you ever say to me: stop, if you loved me—

She jerked, startled, when he touched a handkerchief to her face. When had she started crying? Finally able to look him in the eye, she was surprised to see a sad smile on his face.

"Keep thinking about that different ending, Clarice," he said, then left, quietly closing the door behind him. Clarice dropped her head, her mind spinning. Her gaze fell on the abandoned crossword. She couldn't help the wry smile that sprang to her lips: five down, complete _Hiroshima, Mon . . ._ Clumsy fingers picked up the pencil and she painstakingly filled in her answer.

Amour. 

TBC


	5. chapter 5

Disclaimer in part one.

five

If there was ever a time that Clarice needed a good jog to clear her head, it was now. But, since she was stuck in bed, all she could do was close her eyes and pretend. It wasn't enough. She could still hear Lecter downstairs. She wriggled her toes and winced as pain shot up her legs. At least her back didn't hurt anymore. Very slowly, she maneuvered into a sitting position and looked longingly at the window. The curtains flapped in the breeze. If she spent one second longer in this room, she would lose her mind.

"Dr. Lecter!" A beat. "Dr. Lecter!"

The door to the room swung open and he stepped inside. "Is something wrong?"

"I'd like to go outside. Please," she added in a quieter voice.

Lecter studied her quietly for a moment, then nodded. He disappeared, returning almost immediately with a wheelchair. Clarice wondered if it had been waiting in the hallway. She decided she didn't care; if Lecter wanted to help her get well, fine. She didn't owe him anything.

As he helped her into the chair, she bit her lip to stop the question that sat at the tip of her tongue. _Dr. Lecter, do you love me?_

He pushed the chair closer to the windows and unlocked the door leading to the balcony. Clarice smiled as the cool air danced across her skin. Lecter pushed her outside and set the brake.

"Thank you," she said.

"Only a pleasure."

She stared at the view; whatever she had been going to say, forgotten. The house overlooked a small lake, their closest neighbor on the other shore. All around the property, trees stretched upwards, trying to touch the sky. A bird soared high above them. She glanced once at Lecter and looked quickly away when she realized he was staring at her.

"Umm—"

"It's lovely here, this time of year."

She nodded. "Dr. Lecter—"

"Just a second." He withdrew inside and came back with a blanket. He wrapped it around Clarice's shoulders, then stepped back. "What kind of doctor would I be if I let you get sick?"

She smiled a little, still not entirely sure where she stood with him. "Thanks."

"You don't doubt that they're looking for you, do you?" To Clarice, it sounded more like a statement.

"Why wouldn't they be looking for me?"

*

"Of course we're still looking for her." Pearsall was in a hurry. A confrontation with Dwayne Ritter was the last thing he needed.

"What exactly are you doing to find her?"

Pearsall sighed. "We've got Lecter on the Ten Most Wanted list. We've notified all our field offices of the case. The airports and borders are on alert. We've checked out all the leads we had from the hospital and found nothing. Right now, there is no more we can do."

"You could find her."

"Mr. Ritter—"

"Pastor." Dwayne hated being patronized. This time he would insist on his title being used.

"Pastor Ritter, look. With all due respect, we've being trying to find Hannibal Lecter a lot longer than you have. Trust me when I say this: unless he wants Agent Starling found, we're not going to find her." 

Dwayne was nearly desperate. He'd made a promise to Ardelia. "There must be something—"

"About the only thing left to do is pray. I suggest you do." With that, Pearsall hurried away and into the waiting elevator. He made a mental note to tell security not to let Dwayne back in the building.

*

Instead of answering Clarice's question, Lecter turned to look at the view once more. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and closed his eyes. Clarice pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

"Dr. Lecter—"

"You're an embarrassment to them, Clarice. Because you embody everything that they claim to stand for, but don't. Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

She remembered the compliment, even though it had been received through a morphine-induced haze. Remembered his words, remembered the question. Had the sacrifice been worth it? Remembered thinking, _No_.

"Tell me, Clarice, and don't lie. I'll know. Tell me, would you have gone back after they released you from hospital? Back to the Bureau. To the F. B. I." She shook her head, numbly, and he continued. "You know what they'd love? They'd love to find you with me, alive and well. They wouldn't care if I killed you, but to find you staying with me by choice . . . wouldn't they just eat that up?"

She was cold now, even with the blanket. It wasn't the weather, but Lecter's words that cut so deeply. "Is that why you took me? So that when you lead them here you can enjoy my pain?"

Lecter shook his head, amused. "That was Mason's mistake, you know. They thought that seeing you suffer would draw me out, and they were right. But I never intended to hurt you more. I couldn't."

"No one managed to profile you accurately, did they?" Clarice asked softly. "Not Graham, not Crawford—"

"Not even you, Clarice." He smiled. "Most people forget that even monsters are capable of love."

She forgot to breathe for a split-second, the exact amount of time that it took for his words to sink in. Even then, she was sure she'd misheard. He hadn't just said that he loved her, had he? Had he?

"Dr. Lecter—"

"It's getting cold, I should get you inside." He released the brake and wheeled the chair back into the room. Once he'd put Clarice back into bed, he locked the balcony door. "Get some rest, I'll bring up your dinner."

When Clarice was alone again, she closed her eyes and allowed her tears to fall silently down her cheeks. Ardelia was the one person she had always counted on for good advice, and she needed that advice now more than ever. When, she wondered, had she lost control of the situation? When Lecter had taken her? When the truck had totaled her car? Maybe when she had walked into Baltimore State Hospital and said, 'My name is Clarice Starling. May I talk with you?'

She heard footsteps and quickly brushed away the tears, determined that Lecter would not see her cry.

TBC


	6. chapter 6

A/N: Just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far. Apologies for the huge gaps between posting, but real life keeps rearing its ugly head.  Anyway, I hope it's worth the wait.

six

Pearsall was a man with a problem.  Namely, Special Agent Clarice Starling.  The file on her disappearance lay open on his desk; he knew the contents by heart.  On the floor next to his desk sat a box containing information about Hannibal Lecter.  Pearsall sighed, and stood.  He loosened his tie as he walked to his window.  As he looked out across Washington, the view was the last thing on his mind. Senator Martin had heard about Clarice's accident and her subsequent disappearance and now, for reasons Pearsall didn't quite understand, had decided to get involved.  The last thing Pearsall needed was that kind of pressure.  As far as he was concerned, it would have been better had Crawford never gotten Clarice involved with Lecter in the first place.

The phone rang.  He turned to glare at it.  When it persisted, he crossed the room to answer.  "Pearsall."

It was his secretary, Pammy.  She had a lovely Southern drawl and long legs that he liked looking at, but he'd hired her for the steel backbone she hid beneath her charm.  "Sir, it's your eleven o'clock."

"Thanks.  Send him in."

Pearsall smiled and extended his hand.  "Agent Graham.  It's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's not 'Agent' anymore." Will Graham shook Pearsall's hand and sat down.  Pearsall sat behind his desk, no longer smiling.  The meeting had not gotten off to a very good start.  He cleared his throat, and leaned forward, clasping his fingers together.

"Of course.  I'm sorry.  You heard about Jack?"  Perhaps it would help to remind Graham of his old friendships and loyalties, Pearsall thought.  He should have remembered what Crawford had always said about assuming things.

Graham bowed his head slightly.  "Yes."

Pearsall slid the file across the desk.  He studied Graham carefully.  From what he'd heard, after the Dolarhyde case, Graham had become an alcoholic down in Florida somewhere. The man sitting before him wore a dark tan, but seemed clearheaded and in full control of himself.  He gave a barely perceptible nod, pleased with what he saw.  "You've heard of Clarice Starling?"

"I follow the news."  Graham's gaze was on Pearsall, not the file, and it was oddly disconcerting.  Pearsall made a show of shuffling some papers in front of him. 

"Why do you think I can help you?" Graham asked.

Pearsall looked up and waited a beat before speaking.  "Because you're the best we have."

Graham shook his head.  "You're wrong.  And as I've already said, I don't work here anymore."

"You haven't even looked at the file."

Graham stood to leave.  "I'm sorry."

Pearsall waited until he reached the door before he stood.  "Lecter took Starling for no reason.  What makes you think he won't come after you and your family?"  He paused, and Graham slowly turned to face him.  "How is Molly?  And Josh, is it?"

"You know, Crawford tried that on me before.  I almost got killed.  Lecter's been out for how many years now?  Ten?  He hasn't come after me in all that time.  Why should it be different now?"

"Starling thought she was safe too."  Pearsall knew he was sinking fast, and he needed Graham's help.   He couldn't let him leave yet.  "Just look at the file."

Graham sighed and looked at the door.  When he looked back at Pearsall, the agent knew he'd won.  Graham returned to his seat and picked up the file.

*

Clarice's eyes followed Lecter around the room.  When he looked at her, she glanced back down at the book she was pretending to read.  The words blurred on the page and she blinked to clear her vision.  It didn't help.  And she couldn't remember the name of the damn book either.  She slammed it shut and dropped it on the bed next to her.

"Something wrong, Clarice?"  Lecter sounded amused.  Of course, Clarice thought.  Why wouldn't he be?

She shook her head.  Then nodded.  Then shook her head again.  Lecter sat next to her, his fingers spread on the bedspread.  Clarice couldn't help noticing how elegant his hands were.  She caught herself, and blushed.

"Clarice?"

She raised her gaze but couldn't meet his eyes.  "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Alright."

She couldn't.  She wasn't sure she was ready for the answer.  Instead, she said, "Where did you go?  Not back to Italy."

He frowned; could he tell how flustered she was?  "Vienna.  It's beautiful there.  You'd like it, I'm sure."

She smiled, and risked looking in his eyes.  They held her like magnets, and she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

"I really am sorry about your thumb."

"Don't be.  It's not something I'd care to repeat in future, though."  He took her hand and rubbed the thumb in question across her upturned palm.  She shivered.

"Dr. Lecter—"

"Shh."

She looked down at their hands, then closed her eyes.  "Dr. Lecter, please.  I shouldn't be here."

It was a long time before he spoke again.  All Clarice was conscious of was the warmth of his hand against hers; all that mattered in the world was this moment and the two of them.  Could she let herself believe that he was just a man and she was just a woman?  Could she admit to herself how right it felt to be here?  A traitorous tear made its way down her cheek and she hated the weakness it implied. 

"I could give you the world, you know."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  What had possessed her to start this conversation?  She felt the bed shift as he stood, and heard footsteps as he crossed the room.  When she heard the door close, she opened her eyes.  She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back at her.

*

Someone was laughing, a high-pitched cackle reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West.  Clarice walked slowly into the barn, her weapon drawn and ready.  She could smell the blood; hot and coppery, it made it her gag.  She saw Krendler, a dead lamb lying at his feet.  Its throat was slit and its white coat was stained red.  Clarice raised her eyes to Krendler; he held Ardelia in his arms, a knife against her neck.  In one swift movement, he drew the blade across her throat and she slid to the floor.  

Clarice screamed. "NOOOOOOO!"

She aimed her gun at Krendler and found, to her horror, that she couldn't shoot.  She tried to lunge at him but remained frozen in place.  He laughed.  Someone grabbed her wrist.  She looked into the cold eyes of Lecter and paled as he held up a chopping knife.

"An eye for an eye, Clarice," he said, and brought the blade down against her wrist.

"NO!" She tried to pull away and fell onto her back.  Blood spurted from the stump that used to be her hand.  She scrambled away from him, and found herself looking into the eyes of the dead lamb.  She screamed again and turned the other way, only to see her dead friend.

"Why, Clarice, where are you going? We've only just begun," Lecter said.  In the background, Krendler was still laughing.

Clarice wept.

*

"Shh, shh.  It's okay."  

She was warm.  It was the first thing that registered through the fog of her mind.  Fragments of her dream still haunted her, and she clung to the soft fabric and buried her face in the musky warmth as if her life depended on it.  And she cried.  

Something was stroking her back and her hair.  She felt safe.  Loved.  She let herself be held.

A long time later, she tentatively loosened her hold on her comforter and looked up into his concerned eyes.  He did not release his grip on her.

"Dr. Lecter, I—" _An eye for an eye_.  She bit her lip and looked away.  Knowing he wouldn't hurt her did nothing to dispel the memory of her dream.  He must have sensed something, for he lifted her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Tell me."

She shook her head.  In this state she knew she'd cry, and crying was weak.  

"Clarice."

"What's to tell?  The lambs haven't stopped screaming.  There.  That's what you wanted to know, isn't it?"  She knew she was over-reacting and she didn't care.

His eyes narrowed.  _Don't lie to me.  I'll know._  She felt the tears welling up in her eyes; hating it.  Hating him.  From the beginning, he'd wanted to get into her head.  He had no right.  _You could have said no_, a little voice whispered.  _You could have thanked him for his time and just walked on out of that hospital and that would be that._

Except she knew there was no way things could have ever played out like that.  One way or another, they were fated to cross paths.

She felt ill.

"You were begging me not to hurt you, Clarice.  Now tell me, what did you dream?"

She blinked slowly, and licked her lips.  Her mouth was dry.  "Krendler was slaughtering lambs.  In Mason Verger's barn.  And Ardelia was there.  And . . . And . . . he killed her too.  I tried to shoot him but I couldn't.  And then you were there, and I thought you were going to help me.  But . . . But . . ."

Her eyes moved to the scar on his hand.  The rest of her sentence died in her throat.

"But what, Clarice?"

"You cut my hand off."  She was surprised she hadn't cried yet.  "And then you came after me with the knife."

Lecter pulled her against him, holding her so that she couldn't pull away.  She was too tired to fight him.  She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat, strong beneath his chest.  He rubbed her back again and she sighed softly, relaxing against him.

"I think that this dream was a manifestation of your guilt."

"I don't want you to psychoanalyze me."  Her voice was muffled against his shirt.

"Nevertheless, I think you need to hear this.  You think it was your fault your friend died.  It wasn't.  Accidents happen all the time.  You think I hold you responsible for my injury.  I don't.  And I'm not looking for revenge."

"I know."  She felt like a little girl again.  Only, in the orphanage, no one had been there to chase her monsters away.  She wasn't surprised that she felt better now; Lecter could probably frighten most things away.

"Good.  Now, do you think you can get back to sleep?"

"Yeah."  She pulled away reluctantly and lay back against the pillows.  She felt the loss of his warmth almost immediately.  Before he could stand, she grabbed his hand.  "Stay, please.  Until I fall asleep."

He nodded and she smiled.  "Thank you, Dr. Lecter."

She closed her eyes.  Just as she was drifting off, she felt his lips brush her forehead.  His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered, "I think you're past calling me doctor, my dear Clarice."  

With that, he slipped his hand from hers.  She fell asleep with a smile on her face, and she did not dream.  

TBC


	7. chapter 7

seven

The light from the computer screen cast an eerie glow on Graham's face. He was alone in the building. The last time he'd checked, it had been past eleven. He didn't know how long ago that was. He rubbed his eyes and leaned closer to the screen. Every few seconds, he clicked the mouse.

Pearsall had offered to assign an agent to assist him, but he preferred working alone. Clarice Starling had worked alone, and he needed to get inside her head.

He thought Pearsall was too much like Crawford, working at him until he gave in and agreed to help. Thinking about Lecter was not something he liked doing. There were too many memories he'd rather forget.

Lecter telling him to keep still as he slid to the floor. Molly crying. The panic when he'd heard Dolarhyde had his home address. Lecter's smug note. Molly crying. The look on Josh's face as the broken glass dug into his neck. Molly crying. Molly spending a week away from him. 

He sighed. The Internet was still new to him. Josh had once tried to explain how it worked. He wished he'd paid more attention. Damn pop-ups. No, he did _not_ want to bet $500 dollars on online blackjack.

He typed in 'Hannibal Lecter sightings' and pressed Enter. Interest in Lecter was still very much alive, Graham discovered. How many of the reports were legitimate? He wasn't counting on a lot. He closed the window and accessed Clarice's email account with the code a techie had given him earlier. From what he'd been told about Clarice, he didn't think she would have been communicating with Lecter—especially from her work account—but it wouldn't hurt to check. 

There were a couple of messages from Ardelia Mapp; one from Dwayne Ritter about a gift for Ardelia, one offering a free coupon for online shopping; an unopened internal memo and a note from Barney. Graham wrote down Dwayne and Barney's names on a notepad and closed the window.

He was sad that Clarice Starling had so few friends. 

*

Churches always made Graham uncomfortable. The Community Baptist Church in Chantilly was easy to find if you knew where you were going. Graham had missed his turn and driven in circles until someone pointed him in the right direction. He found Dwayne in his office, half-hidden behind a pile of books. Dwayne didn't acknowledge him, so he cleared his throat.

When Dwayne looked up, his expression was blank. Graham was glad; he hated when people made a big deal out of his scarred face.

"Can I help you?" Dwayne said.

Graham took a step inside and pulled a badge from his pocket. It was temporary Bureau id. _Just like Clarice_, he'd thought when Pearsall had given it to him. "My name is Will Graham. I'm working on Clarice Starling's disappearance."

"Have a seat." Dwayne moved the pile of books aside.

Graham wished he'd called before he'd come. It was obvious that Dwayne was in the middle of preparing a sermon. He looked around the small office. There was a picture of Clarice and Ardelia in a frame on the wall. They had their arms slung casually around each other and were laughing at something. Graham smiled. Dwayne followed his gaze.

"That was taken on Clarice's birthday last year."

"How well did you know Agent Starling?"

"As well as anybody, I guess. The only person who _really_ knew Starling was Delia."

__

And Lecter, Graham thought. "Did she say anything to you before she disappeared?"

"Like?"

"Like, was she unhappy in any way? Dissatisfied?"

Dwayne was silent for a moment. "Unhappy? Dissatisfied? Agent Graham, her best friend had just died. She was in hospital. Of course she was unhappy."

"I'm sorry." Graham had to tread carefully. "I meant, was she unhappy with work?"

Dwayne shrugged. "I don't know."

"And she never said anything to you about Lecter? Not even in confession?"

"Clarice didn't go to church at all. And even if she came here, she wouldn't have confessed to me. This is a Baptist church."

"You didn't answer my question, Pastor."

Dwayne sighed. "No, she didn't mention him to me." 

"Thank you." Graham stood. This had been a waste of time. Dwayne's question stopped him in his tracks.

"Why do you think he took her?"

Graham didn't turn around. "I wish I knew for certain."

"Do you think you'll find her?"

"I hope so." _But I don't think it's very likely._

"I'll pray for you."

*

The emergency room was busier than usual and Graham had to wait half an hour to speak to Barney. He sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room and sipped at his coffee while he watched the people. After a while, their faces blurred together and he turned his thoughts to Clarice Starling. What was it about her that kept Lecter coming back?

"Agent Graham."

He looked up at Barney. "Hi, Barney. Thank you for seeing me."

"I'm on a five minute break. We can talk outside."

Graham followed Barney out. They passed a trashcan on the way and Graham dumped his cold coffee in it. It was cold outside, and he put his hands in his jacket pockets and wished he were home. It was always warm at home.

"You here about Clarice?" Barney asked.

"Yeah. What do you know about it?"

"Just what I read in the papers."

Graham wondered if Barney had always been this vague, or if he knew more than he was letting on. "What's that?"

"She got hurt pretty bad in a car accident and then she went missing. I went to see her a day or so after it happened, but she was asleep. The next time I went, she was gone."

"Why'd you keep in touch with her, Barney?"

He shrugged. "I liked her. She came to talk to me after what happened the last time Dr. Lecter got away. I think she just wanted someone to talk to."

"About Lecter?"

"She tried not to speak about him. Once or twice, she'd ask what he'd said about her."

Graham thought he was onto something. "And what did he say about her?"

Barney just smiled. "It won't help you find her, Agent Graham."

"Barney—"

"Do you know why he killed Miggs?"

__

Okay, Barney. I'll play. "I thought Miggs killed himself."

"He was rude to Clarice. Same reason he killed that other guy, Krennick."

"Krendler."

"Whatever."

"He killed Miggs to amuse himself, Barney. He was bored—"

"You were rude to him too. That's why he sent the Tooth Fairy to your house."

That was enough for Graham. "What makes you think he won't come after you?"

Barney smiled. "He'd think it was rude." An ambulance pulled up, sirens blazing. Barney looked back at Graham over his shoulder as he went to assist. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Agent Graham."

Graham stood in the cold until his toes were numb. He hailed a cab and sat in silence until he reached his hotel. Once in his room, he stared at the telephone next to the bed, aching to call Molly. She hadn't been happy about him coming here, but she'd known better than to try and stop him. He needed to put this particular demon to rest. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd woken up shaking and covered in sweat, lying frozen in Molly's arms until the panic passed.

He'd call her tomorrow.

With a sigh, he sat in the middle of the bed and opened the box of case files, spreading files and photos around him. He recognized some of the very early reports as his own, and buried them under others. He would look at those later. He was interested in Clarice Starling's reports for now. He pored over the files for hours until he passed out from sheer exhaustion.

*

Even though he'd picked up a key from Clarice's lawyer, Graham still felt like a trespasser in her house. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and closed the front door behind him. All the curtains were drawn and the house was dark. Lights or flashlight, Graham debated. He didn't want to open the curtains. Lights. He flicked the switch. The message light on the answering machine was blinking.

Graham took a deep breath. Was he ready to do this? The last time he'd played an answering machine message it had haunted him for a long time.

Something shrill jerked him from his thoughts. It was a moment before he realized it was the cell phone Pearsall had assigned him. He pulled it from his pocket. "Graham."

"It's Pearsall."

Of course it was. Graham's eyes darted around the hallway, his mind only half-on the conversation. 

"How's it going?" Pearsall asked.

"Slowly."

"Oh . . . Well, we got a report here. Someone says they saw Lecter in Amsterdam. Do you think he's left the country again?"

Amsterdam? "How long ago?"

"Three days."

"With Agent Starling?"

There was a rustle of papers. "Uh . . . no."

"He's still here. She's in no condition to travel."

"You think she's still alive?"

Pearsall's tone was enough to get Graham's full attention. "Yes."

"Well, I think we'll follow up on this one anyway. Thanks."

Graham hung up, more than a little annoyed. If Pearsall didn't want his help, he should have never gotten him involved in the first place. He jabbed at the button on Clarice's answering machine, then wished he hadn't when he heard Dwayne's voice.

"Hey, Clare. Neither of you are answering your cell phones and I got Delia's machine too. I, uh, well, we're getting a little worried over here. You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Well, just call when you get this. I know I'm worrying for nothing."

There were no other messages. Graham lifted the telephone and heard a pleasant female voice telling him the service had been disconnected. He made his way into the living room, switching on more lights as he went.

"What was so special about you, Clarice? What does he like about you?"

Graham sat in an armchair and closed his eyes. He pictured Clarice sitting the way he was; pictured Lecter coming into the house while she was asleep. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he jumped up, then felt foolish when he realized he was alone. He glanced once more around the room then went upstairs. If he was really going to get to know Clarice, he was going to have to look at her bedroom. Molly always said you could tell everything about a woman from the state of her bedroom.

"Did you have a boyfriend? Did you bring him up here? How did Lecter feel when he saw you with another—"

He stopped himself. He was thinking as if Lecter was in love with her. Which was completely ridiculous, of course.

Unless—

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his reflection in the dresser mirror. Lecter had sacrificed his own thumb when he could have easily cut off hers. It didn't fit. Self-preservation had always been at the top of Lecter's priorities. He hadn't hurt her. Clarice Starling was pretty, sure, and Lecter did like pretty things . . . but that couldn't be the reason he hadn't hurt her. Why? It couldn't be love; Lecter was a monster. Monsters didn't feel. Monsters didn't have mercy.

But Lecter hadn't hurt her. 

Graham knew he was on the right track and the knowledge left him uneasy. He wondered what _exactly_ had happened that night. He was sure Clarice had left things out of her report. Things which he desperately needed to know.

Profiling Clarice was not going to help them find Lecter. She could be a bargaining tool if the need arose, although they would have to watch themselves. Krendler and Verger had tried to use her and they were both dead.

Graham realized he'd just thought of Clarice as a tool, and he felt sick. More than ever, he wished he were home. Suddenly claustrophobic, he ran down the stairs and outside, where he leaned on the porch railing and drew deep breaths.

The chances of finding them were slim, and he wondered if Clarice wouldn't be better off dead. As he sank to his haunches, he thought he heard Lecter's voice in his head. _Catch me if you can, Willy. We're the same, after all._


	8. chapter 8

__

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Your comments are always appreciated. Thanks also to Kurt and Jerome for your help. Sorry this took so long to get out, my life has been insane lately. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long.

eight

Graham sat on the porch of Clarice Starling's duplex, hardly feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine. He wondered if the chill in the air was mostly in his imagination, and decided it didn't matter. At times like this, he was glad he'd stopped profiling. If he'd continued, he would probably have lost his mind well before now.

__

Catch me if you can, Willy. We're the same, after all.

He'd heard the words so clearly he could have sworn Lecter was right there. But, of course, his only companions were ghosts. He shivered, and buried his face in his hands. He wanted to go home. Returning to profiling was harder than he'd thought. As he sat there, fighting with the monsters in his head, he wondered if it was even worth it.

He didn't want to go back in the house. He knew he couldn't save Clarice and the knowledge burned.

*

"Well, it looks like the Bureau wants you back after all." Lecter dropped a folded newspaper onto the bed and sat down, looking expectantly at Clarice. She opened it. A sidebar on page two informed her that Will Graham had come out of retirement to assist in the search for her. She read the article in silence then folded the paper and calmly handed it back.

"Well?" Lecter asked.

Clarice smiled, but it lacked warmth. She really didn't want to get into this conversation now. "Graham was kind of a legend at the Academy. There was talk of him coming to lecture once, but he never did. I'd always wanted to meet him. And after you escaped in Memphis, I called him. His wife answered—she was nice. Even though she wouldn't let me speak to him."

"Ah, yes. Molly." He paused, and Clarice held her breath. Every time Lecter opened his mouth to speak, she was afraid he would bring up the other night—when she'd been weak, when she'd let him comfort her—and she wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Knowing Lecter, he'd probably mention it when she least expected it. "So, tell me, Clarice. They obviously want you back. Why do you think that is?"

"They don't want me. They want you." She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

Lecter just smiled. Clarice looked down at her lap and picked at the edge of the cast on her wrist. One more week, and then it could come off. One more week, and she wouldn't be confined to this bed. One more week . . . and then anything could happen.

"Why didn't you kill Graham when you escaped?"

Lecter shrugged. "I didn't want to. Contrary to what people think, I like Will. I like the way his mind works. His problem is that he's afraid he'll lose himself. That if he travels the dark path long enough, he won't find his way back. Like Dante's Pilgrim, only Will doesn't have a Beatrice to lead him out of hell."

"What about me?" Clarice wondered what had prompted her to ask. She knew he would be honest, and she knew his words would probably hurt.

Lecter's expression softened, and there was a new look in his eyes. "You? Clarice, you _are_ Beatrice."

She exhaled softly. Whatever she had expected, that was not it. "Then what's my problem?"

"You're far too idealistic. Do you really believe that everything is so black and white? Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity? Truth, Justice, and the American way?" He was mocking now, and she raised her chin defiantly.

"Sometimes things are black and white."

"Like what?" He leaned back in his chair and looked at her expectantly.

She sighed. "Do we have to do this?"

"You brought it up."

"Fine. Alright. I agree that not everything is black and white. I know our relationship certainly isn't."

Lecter tilted his head to one side. "Do we have a relationship?"

Clarice bit her lip. She could feel her cheeks burning and knew she'd walked right into that one. Lecter was in an odd mood this morning; one she didn't know how to handle. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"Well, Clarice?"

"I don't know." Her headache hit full force. She picked up the bottle of Tylenol and fumbled with the lid. Lecter took the bottle from her and popped the lid off. He handed her two tablets and poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just a headache."

"You'd best get some rest then." He closed the curtains, leaving the window slightly open to allow for fresh air. He paused at the door and looked back with a smile. "I'll tell Will you say hello."

He was gone before she could reply.

*

It had been two long days since Graham had run out of Clarice Starling's house. He still hadn't called Molly. He didn't want to involve her in this. And if he didn't speak to her, she couldn't tell him she was worried about him.

He was surprised to see Dwayne outside the duplex. He raised his hand in greeting as he approached. Dwayne nodded.

"Good afternoon, Agent Graham."

"Pastor Ritter." Graham glanced at the three men in overalls and frowned. "What's going on?"

"I'm packing up Ardelia's things. Life goes on. I need to go on, too."

Graham nodded. Life did, indeed, go on. For some reason, the thought wasn't particularly cheering.

"How is the investigation coming?"

There was no point in lying. "Slowly. There are very few leads to go on."

"Well. Good luck." Dwayne turned and walked towards his car. Graham watched him drive away before he went inside.

Everything was exactly as he'd left it. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and entered the bedroom, opening the cupboard. For the most part, Clarice had a very casual wardrobe. There were three suits that she probably wore for work and one or two smartish outfits. Otherwise there were just jeans, cargo pants, and sweat suits. He thought if he ever got the chance to meet Clarice, he'd probably like her. She'd probably hit it off with Molly too.

Her shoes were equally casual, except for a Gucci box stacked right at the back. He pulled it out and opened it to find a very elegant pair of high heels. They seemed out of place. Graham didn't know how he knew, but he was certain she hadn't bought them for herself.

He rifled through the clothes again, this time spotting something hanging in the far corner. He pulled it out and frowned. It was a black evening dress . . . there was something very familiar about it. Wasn't she wearing a black evening dress the night of Lecter's second escape? Surely this couldn't be that same dress. She wouldn't have kept it, would she? Clarice Starling was a straight arrow, he'd been told. 

But Lecter was inside her head, as surely as he'd gotten into Graham's.

Graham felt the sudden urge to call Dwayne. If anyone needed prayer, it was Clarice M. Starling.

He put the dress back where he'd found it and closed the cupboard. He found what he was looking for in the hallway cupboard: a cardboard box filled with press cuttings and a couple of tapes he was certain had never seen the inside of Quantico. He put one in the stereo and couldn't help shivering when he heard Lecter's familiar voice.

He hadn't wanted a drink this badly in a long time.

He called Pearsall instead, and told him what he'd found. When Pearsall mentioned that the lead in Amsterdam hadn't panned out, he couldn't help smiling. He'd been right; Lecter was still in the country.

And if he was still here, Graham would find him. He couldn't hide forever.

His only concern was that when he eventually caught up to them, Clarice might not want to be rescued.

*

"What are you planning to do?"

Lecter had taken Clarice out onto the balcony again. She'd suggested that it might be nice to eat lunch outside for a change and he'd readily agreed. He was pleased to see her in better spirits these days, and she was definitely more at ease in his company. He filled their glasses with fruit juice and sat down before answering.

"About?"

"Will Graham."

"Nothing." It was the truth. That was not to say that Lecter had no _other_ plans—but these he did not intend on sharing with Clarice just yet.

"But, you said—" She took a sip of her drink, then stared at him, her eyes searching his. He stared back, his expression inscrutable. "Never mind."

"You know, you're going to need some physical therapy when those casts come off. You've been immobile for five weeks now."

She nodded, and he saw something unreadable in her eyes. She'd always been so active; it occurred to him that this inaction must be killing her.

"I suppose you're going to supervise my therapy?" Her tone was light, flirtatious almost. Perhaps he didn't have as much work to do as he'd thought.

"Of course."

She smiled, one of her first real smiles in a long time. "Of course."

He smiled too, already making slight changes and adjustments to the plans in his mind. There had never been any question that this would end the way he wanted it to. Lecter was a man who usually got what he wanted, no matter how long he had to wait. He was no stranger to patience, and it looked like his patience was finally about to be rewarded.


	9. chapter 9

nine

Clarice held her breath as the cold metal blade slipped between the plaster cast and her skin. She watched as Lecter slowly cut through the plaster. Minutes later, her wrist was free. Lecter pulled the blankets down and started on the casts on her legs. His touch was surprisingly gentle and not for one second did it cross her mind how easy it would be for him to hurt her.

The door to the balcony was open, allowing the cool morning breeze to enter. It was a welcome change from the weeks of feeling nothing but plaster, and she smiled. She wasn't sure if it was the breeze or Lecter's hands that gave her goosebumps, but right now she didn't care.

"Thank you," she said. Her tone was sincere, and there was a warmth in her voice that was new to her.

Lecter gently lifted her right leg, flexing it so she had to bend her knee. She held her breath, the ache in her unused muscles not entirely unpleasant. He repeated the action with the other leg and she gasped, her calf muscles cramping in protest.

"How is your wrist?" Lecter asked.

She flexed it and smiled. "A little sore. But otherwise, perfect."

She would need to work hard to regain her strength. It was a good thing she wasn't planning to enter any shooting competitions in the near future, she thought with a slight chuckle.

"Would you like to go outside?"

She looked at the window. Yes, she would love to go outside, but not just yet. She turned to Lecter. "What I'd really like is a bubble bath."

Ten minutes later, Lecter was helping her into a steaming bath. He was the epitome of gentlemanly courtesy and she found herself surprisingly unashamed of her nakedness. He had been looking after her for weeks now, and not once had he taken advantage of her helplessness. Some deep part of her wished that he _would_ look at her.

She sank back into the bubbles and smiled up at the doctor, pleased to see that he looked slightly flushed. With the casts off, she felt strangely liberated, and she decided she could enjoy this unfamiliar new power she seemed to have over him.

__

You're playing with fire, a voice warned in the back of her mind.

__

I know, she thought gleefully. _And I'm having fun._

__

What?! The voice shrieked. _Have you lost your mind?_

"I'll be right outside. Call me if you need anything," Lecter said.

She nodded. Maybe she had lost her mind. What did it matter? She was damned anyway.

*

Buzzard's Point was appropriately named, Graham thought. It was a home for scavengers and predators. Graham wished he were anywhere else. He'd needed to see Pearsall though, and Pammy had managed to squeeze him in between two meetings. But, of course, Pearsall was running late.

Finally, his office door opened and Pearsall stepped out. He said something to Pammy then approached Graham.

"Take a walk with me."

Graham fell into step with Pearsall as they made their way to Pearsall's car. 

"I got a phone call from Senator Martin. She wants to know how the investigation is going," Pearsall said.

"Lecter's managed to avoid capture for ten years. He's not going to get careless now. Especially not when he has exactly what he wants."

"Which is?"

"Clarice Starling."

Pearsall stopped and looked around; no one was in earshot. He lowered his voice anyway. "Clarice Starling is probably dead already. We're not looking for her, we're looking for him."

"If he wanted to kill her, he would have done it years ago." Graham felt sick. Pearsall didn't care about Clarice Starling; he just wanted Lecter caught. Graham had had his suspicions from the beginning, but there was no joy in having them confirmed.

He had a fleeting thought that perhaps Clarice Starling was better off with Hannibal Lecter. There was nothing for her to return to. People would always wonder about her, there would always be talk of her relationship with Lecter. 

Pearsall was speaking again. He forced himself to listen.

". . . Keep looking. And keep me informed." Pearsall strode to his car, leaving Graham staring after him.

He wondered what Pearsall would do if he just left and went back to Florida.

*

Clarice was overjoyed to be mobile again. She'd mastered the use of her crutches with a little practice, and had already explored the entire upstairs level of the house. She was currently negotiating her way down the stairs when Lecter opened the front door.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked.

She blew a stray strand of hair from her face and smiled. "Just looking for the kitchen."

"That way." He gestured to his right and stood, watching her as she struggled down the last few steps. She was glad he hadn't offered to help.

The kitchen was spacious and airy. Ardelia would have loved it. It was the first time Clarice had thought of Ardelia without wanting to cry.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

*

Dwayne stood in the cemetery again. He said a silent prayer for Ardelia and Clarice. He'd meant what he'd said to Graham; he had to go on living. He couldn't mourn forever. And there was nothing he could for Clarice now except pray. The only person who could possibly help her was Graham, but Dwayne had a feeling the agent had too many of his own demons to fight before he could.

If God were at all merciful, Clarice would be dead already. That was certainly preferable to being held hostage by that monster.

Dwayne took out Ardelia's cross from his pocket and laid it on the grass in front of the headstone. He took a deep breath, his voice choked as he finally said, "Goodbye, 'Delia."

He didn't look back on his way out. Ardelia wasn't there anyway. He looked skyward, and there was a faint trace of a smile on his face.

He thought, just maybe, he'd be okay after all.

*

The stars were clear in the night sky. Clarice sat on the balcony, lost in thought. If Lecter had wanted to help her work through her grief and her guilt, he'd done that. Which meant that she was ready to return, only . . .

Only she wasn't sure she wanted to.

She liked being here. She liked her conversations with Lecter. She liked feeling that she belonged.

But the nagging voice inside her told her she couldn't stay. Countless questions tumbled through her mind. What guarantee was there that Lecter wouldn't tire of her and kill her? What if they were found, what would happen then? If she did stay with him, where would they go? What if he killed again? Or worse, would she be able to kill for him?

Too late, she thought, she'd already done that. Mason's goons, in the barn. That deputy—one of her own.

Would she do it again?

The answer came immediately. Yes. 

But she still didn't feel any better. It didn't matter what she wanted. She should leave, go back to D.C. and rescue whatever remained of her life. It's what Ardelia would have suggested.

Ardelia had never understood. No one had. Not even she understood completely.

She still couldn't stay.

Her mind made up, she picked up her crutches and hobbled back into the bedroom. Lecter was waiting for her; she wondered how long he'd been watching her. He smiled at her and she knew he knew what she had decided. She raised her chin.

"You said I'm not a prisoner here."

"Did I?"

A sliver of fear ran down her spine. He had, hadn't he? Or had she just imagined that?

To what lengths would he go to keep her here?

"Dr. Lecter—"

"You don't really want to leave. I expect it's just your conscience, trying to convince you that staying is wrong. Listen to your heart, Clarice. Your heart won't lie."

She glanced at the door behind him and knew she'd never make it. But she had to try. She dropped the crutches and darted past him. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her to the bed, pinning her to the mattress with his weight. His breath was hot against her neck. She closed her eyes, panting from both the exercise and his proximity.

"That world holds nothing for you anymore," he said. "Why do you keep wanting to go back to it?"

She couldn't give him an answer she didn't have.

"Tell me, Clarice, that you haven't felt more alive in the past few weeks than you have in the last three years. Tell me, and I'll drive you back myself."

She was so tired of fighting; maybe it was time to stop. Listen to your heart, he'd said. She opened her eyes and saw he was waiting for her answer. Very slowly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and softly pressed her lips to his.

*

"Dr. Williamson? I'm Agent Graham. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time."

Graham wasn't sure how much help the psychologist would be. He'd only spoken to Clarice Starling once and Graham was sure that the topic of Hannibal Lecter had not come up. But he was short on leads, and he had to follow through on every one he got.

The doctor glanced at his watch and nodded. "I have a patient in five minutes."

Graham closed the office door and sat down. "You spoke to Clarice Starling shortly before she went missing."

Dr. Williamson frowned in thought, then nodded. "Ah, yes. Miss Starling had been in a very serious accident. I assumed, correctly, that she was struggling to deal with her grief. Especially when it was compounded by the guilt of her friend's death."

"Did she tell you she felt guilty?"

Dr. Williamson seemed surprised at the question. "Why, no. She didn't have to. Anyone in her situation would have felt that way. It's a natural human response."

Graham decided he didn't like the doctor. He was sure Clarice hadn't liked him either. He stood. "Well, thank you very much."

Dr. Williamson grunted in reply and turned back to his paperwork. Graham shook his head and left.

For no reason at all, he decided to visit Ardelia Mapp's grave.

*

Clarice laid a bunch of forget-me-nots on John Brigham's grave and slowly made her way to Ardelia's. Lecter walked beside her in silence. He stopped just before Ardelia's grave, giving Clarice some privacy.

Something glinted in the afternoon sunshine. Clarice bent to pick it up. It was Ardelia's necklace. She wondered how long it had been there; it was strange that no one had taken it. Smiling, she slipped it into her pocket.

"I'm sorry, 'Delia. For all of this. You didn't deserve it." She looked at Lecter, not surprised to find him watching her. "I wish . . . I wish you were still here."

She dropped a single rose on the grave and turned to Lecter. He was staring past her. She looked back over her shoulder and froze.

Will Graham was just a few feet away, an expression of shock and disbelief on his face.


	10. chapter 10

A/N: Well, this is it. The end (at last). Thanks to everyone who's been reading (*grin* you're a patient bunch!) The Spanish is courtesy of babelfish ;o)

ten

Graham stared at Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, a thousand emotions running through him. He had been right: Clarice was very much alive and healthy and definitely _not_ Lecter's prisoner.

"Well, hello, Will. How very nice to see you again." Lecter's voice was as cold and smooth as Graham remembered. With that memory, the fear returned. Graham was taken back to the night Lecter had almost killed him; that same voice calmly telling him there would be very little pain. It was the truth. The pain had come later as he lay in a hospital bed, when he saw Molly's tears and every time he woke up with a hangover.

"I wish I could say the same for you," Graham said. He felt the reassuring weight of the gun against his side and glanced from Lecter to Clarice, wondering which of them posed the greater threat.

Clarice was nearer, but there might be a chance he could convince her to leave with him. Very slowly, he drew his weapon.

"No one has to get hurt," Lecter said. "Let us pay our respects to the dead, and then we'll be gone from your life."

Graham spoke past the lump in his throat. "You know I can't let you do that."

Lecter looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Have it your way." 

"Agent Starling, you know what you have to do."

Clarice smiled at him, her expression sad. Graham knew what she'd decided.

"Agent Starling," he tried again. "Think about every good thing you've ever done." He had no way of knowing Pearsall had spoken those exact words to her three years before.

She shook her head, her eyes moist with unshed tears. "I'm sorry."

With Graham's attention on Clarice, he had failed to notice that Lecter had taken out his own gun. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lecter raise his hand and slowly turned to look at him. It was strange to see the doctor holding a gun; for some reason Graham had always thought that Lecter didn't like guns. Obviously, he was wrong. 

He raised his weapon, aiming it at Lecter.

"Gunshot wounds are always so messy," Lecter said. "I'm afraid I can't promise that it will be painless."

Graham pulled the trigger. There was a soft click as the gun misfired. He tried again. Another click. Click. Click. Suddenly terrified, Graham knew he was going to die. It was a feeling he'd had before, but never as strongly as now. He wondered what had gone wrong.

"Hannibal, no."

Graham blinked slowly, surprised that Clarice had intervened. Maybe there was still hope for her.

"Don't kill him," she said. "Please."

Graham didn't really expect Lecter to listen to her, so it was no surprise when Lecter fired. The bullet hit him high in the left shoulder. Graham stumbled backwards with the impact and fell to the ground.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this, he thought. There were still things he wanted to tell Molly. He wanted to finish the boat he had been building with Josh.

By the time Graham realized that he wasn't going to bleed to death, Lecter and Clarice were gone. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

*

Molly Graham had one thing in common with Hannibal Lecter: she held the FBI in as little regard as he did. The FBI had almost got Will killed on three separate occasions. The first time, she had been upset but she had tried to accept that danger came with the job. The second time, a madman had invaded her house, had tried to kill her son, and she had told Jack Crawford exactly where he could stick his Behavioral Sciences Unit.

When Will told her about Pearsall's call, she had told him it was a bad idea. But she hadn't tried to make him stay. So she had kissed him goodbye and said she loved him and prayed every night that the phone call she dreaded would not come.

When Pearsall's secretary had called—_his secretary_, she thought with distaste_, even Crawford had had the decency to call himself_—Molly had quietly listened and then hung up. She'd taken the next available flight to Washington, wondering how bad it was.

Arriving at Georgetown University Hospital, she was told her husband had discharged himself. Relieved that the injury couldn't be too serious then, she caught a taxi to his hotel. When he wasn't in his room, she called Pearsall, who denied knowing his whereabouts. Left with one more option, Molly headed downstairs to the hotel's bar.

*

Just one drink, Graham thought. 

The bar was nearly empty. No one looked twice at Graham as he made his way to the bar and sat down, wincing slightly. He called the bartender over and ordered a scotch on the rocks.

__

Just one drink.

An hour and three drinks later, Graham realized coming here had been a mistake.

Three drinks after that, he decided he didn't care. If he drank enough, he could escape the events of the past few weeks. There was a familiar woman heading his direction.

"Hey, babe," he said as Molly slid onto the barstool next to him.

"Oh, Will . . ."

"Buy you a drink? Hey, Dan, get the lady a drink." He downed the remaining liquid in his glass.

"Come on, Will, let's go."

"Sure." He stumbled on his way out, glad that he had a hand to a hold on to.

*

Molly blinked back her tears. He'd been doing so well until this case. When they reached the room, she dialed Pearsall's number. "It's Molly Graham," she said to Pammy. "Put me through."

"Molly! Did you find him?"

"I found him in a bar." She paused, letting the words sink in.

"I'm sorry," Pearsall said.

"Dammit, Mr. Pearsall. He's been sober for years and you wreck it in three weeks. You knew what this case would do to him. You knew it and you knew he wouldn't say no and you asked him anyway!"

"Molly—"

"Goodbye, Mr. Pearsall. Please don't call us again." She hung up and collapsed on the bed, burying her face in her hands. When Will clumsily put his arms around her, she cried harder.

* * *

Every Sunday after the evening service, Dwayne said a prayer for Clarice Starling. Six months after he read about the events at Arlington, he was surprised to see Will and Molly Graham sitting in one of the back pews. He caught Graham's eye during the first song and smiled in acknowledgement. It was more than coincidence, he thought, that tonight he was preaching on redemption.

After the service, Graham introduced him to Molly. As he walked with them to their car, Molly stopped suddenly.

"Do you think there's redemption for people like Lecter?" she asked.

Dwayne thought for a long moment, then shrugged. "Only God knows the answer to that."

Molly nodded. "I thought you'd say that."

Graham shook Dwayne's hand. "It was good to see you again."

"And you. Take care."

Dwayne watched them drive off, smiling. It was reassuring to know that not all of his prayers had gone unanswered.

*

A year after the accident, Dwayne went to visit Ardelia. He laid a bunch of wild flowers on the grass; Ardelia had loved wild flowers. He could smile at the memory now. Sometimes it still hurt to think of her, but each day was easier than the one before. He was glad he'd come.

Before he left, he said a silent prayer for Clarice Starling and hoped that wherever she was, she had found what she was looking for. He hoped she was finally at peace.

*

On the second anniversary of her friend's death, Clarice Starling woke up early and went down to the beach. She sat on the sand and watched the sun's rays dance on the Mediterranean Sea. No one would disturb her; the beach was privately owned.

She drew patterns in the sand with her fingers as she thought back to that strange time when her world had been turned inside out. The only thing she regretted was that Ardelia had had to die to make her new life possible.

She looked up as a shadow fell over her. Hannibal Lecter extended his hand to help her up. She smiled at him and hooked her arm through his as they walked back up to the house. The sound of a crying baby reached them as they reached the top of the steps, accompanied by a woman's gentle, soothing tone. Clarice's smile widened; it was time to let go of the past. The present and the future held so much more for her. 

"Manuela!" she called. "Está bien. Ahora la tomaré."

The housekeeper smiled and handed the infant to Clarice. The child stopped crying instantly. Manuela threw up her hands and clucked her tongue, but she was smiling.

"¿Usted verá por favor para desayunar?"

Manuela nodded and turned towards the kitchen. "Si, Señora."

The child grabbed a fistful of Clarice's hair and gurgled. "Paloma, no."

She carefully extracted her hair from the child's fingers. Paloma smiled a toothless grin and shoved her fist into her mouth. Her eyes lit up as Lecter appeared in her line of sight.

"Alright," Clarice said. "Go to Papa."

As Clarice gave him the baby, she noticed a tenderness in his expression that she was seeing more frequently these days. If there was one thing that Lecter adored more than her, it was their child. She had been surprised that he hadn't wanted to call her Mischa.

'No,' he'd said. 'Paloma. Our dove.'

He had only killed once since they'd lived here. An ambitious young man had picked the wrong house to rob. The blood had been easy to clean from the tiles. Clarice didn't ask what he'd done with the body.

Manuela appeared in the doorway and announced that breakfast was ready. Clarice followed her family into the dining room. As she watched Lecter put Paloma in the high chair, it occurred to her that she was truly happy.

It wasn't quite the peace that Dwayne was praying for, but it was what she wanted.

~THE END~


End file.
